


Jaskier Doesn't Bleed Tomorrow

by LoveEffect



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Cutting, First Aid, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Out of Character, Recovery, Scars, Self-Harm, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveEffect/pseuds/LoveEffect
Summary: Jaskier has almost constantly smelled of blood, ever since Geralt first ran into him at the edge of the world. Geralt doesn't ask for over two decades, blaming the scent on everything else under the sun.Wow, another vent fic. Is everyone out of character? Yes, I'm projecting. Would anyone react as well as Geralt does? Probably not but this is a vent fic, it's fine.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 61
Kudos: 768





	Jaskier Doesn't Bleed Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: explicit and relatively detailed self-injury and wound care, description of old and healing self-injury scars. Everything turns out alright, but please don't trigger yourself.

Riding Roach away from the edge of the world, Geralt commits the scent of Jaskier’s blood to memory. Not on purpose, it simply wiggles its way into his brain, slotting itself into the catalogue of known scents. He also realizes that that was what he’d smelt on the bard when they met, just a hint hidden under bread and booze and the faint smell of floral oil. He rolls his eyes. He must have pissed someone off, gotten roughed up before they’d met. The audience had held enough disdain for him, it wouldn’t surprise him if the bard faced violence every third tavern he sang for.

* * *

They run into each other a mere two weeks later, and Jaskier sticks to Geralt’s side like tree sap, like honey, like sticky sweet syrup.

“Are you injured?” he asks, smelling the hint of old blood. Jaskier looks nearly affronted by the suggestion.

“No? Why do you ask?” he replies, the picture of confusion, and Geralt just hums. Jaskier changes the subject, fidgeting with the hilt of the dagger strapped to his hip.

* * *

As Geralt furiously scrubs at his skin to divest himself of the last remnants of selkiemore guts, Jaskier rolls up his sleeves and moves behind Geralt. When his hands touch his hair Geralt freezes, but Jaskier simply starts picking out bits of viscera without a hint of squeamish nausea permeating the air, and Geralt lets himself relax into the hot water and Jaskier’s fingers. He realizes that he can’t smell blood, only clean skin and oil and bath salts and the warm cinnamon of content.

Geralt frowns slightly. If the copper tang of blood isn’t just part of what Jaskier smells like, why the hell does he get injured so frequently? Especially now that he’s beloved by seemingly the whole continent?

* * *

Later that night Jaskier smells like blood again, but at least Geralt can see the small gash on the man’s cheekbone delivered from a fragment of flying glassware. He leaves him with the Countess de Stael gingerly dabbing the cut with her handkerchief as though the wound is still weeping, as though it’ll even leave a scar.

* * *

Jaskier gets injured on a hunt. It was bound to happen eventually, what with him keeping far too close to ever actually be safe. An endrega warrior had stabbed into his calf, eliciting a mere shout of pain before Jaskier quickly pulled himself out of reach into a nearby tree. Geralt reminds himself that although he’s human, he’s still quite strong, quite sturdy, and focuses on stabbing the queen, not on the tang of copper dripping to the ground, smelling of iron and pain.

Once the queen is nothing more than damp chitin, Geralt approaches where Jaskier sits in the tree, jaw clamped shut and brow furrowed. He helps the bard down and half carries him to the campsite, berating him on getting too close.

He settles Jaskier on a bedroll. “Alright, breeches off,” he says turning to light the fire, ignoring the squeak of protest. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer fabric healing inside your leg?” he asks scathingly, shooting Jaskier a look.

The bard waits until Geralt is digging through the saddlebags before undressing, and by the time Geralt returns, Jaskier’s holding his chemise in place, even though the garment goes down to his knees. Geralt wonders where the sudden modesty came from but settles for sterilizing the thankfully clean wound.

“This will scar. I could sew it shut, keep the scar smaller and help it heal faster, but it’ll still be visible,” Geralt warns. Jaskier just shrugs, showing much less concern for his skin than Geralt had assumed he’d have.

“Not the first scar I’ve received, won’t be the last,” he says, looking somber as anything as he stares flatly into Geralt’s eyes. “Get your needle and thread, my friend. I don’t plan to be bedridden for a month because of some overgrown insect.”

Jaskier fusses a lot less at the tug of stitches than Geralt had thought he would. Geralt wants to ask about the spattering of gossamer thin white lines on Jaskier’s calves that would be invisible to anyone else. He bandages the wound silently.

* * *

Geralt gets back to the inn where Jaskier had thankfully stayed behind. Hunting a bruxa was not an event the bard wished to see up close, especially when he could very easily be attacked as a distraction by the highly intelligent creature. Geralt collects his coin and returns to the room he and Jaskier are sharing, sunset filtering golden through the windows.

He freezes as he smells Jaskier’s blood, freshly drawn. The bard is sitting on the bed, fidgeting with lyrics in his notebook, but he looks up to smile at Geralt.

“What happened?” Geralt ask before Jaskier can say his greeting. The bard frowns in confusion. “Where are you hurt?”

Jaskier starts stuttering in confusion, eking out “Geralt, what are you talking about?”

“I can smell your blood,” he says, and Jaskier goes a bit white.

“I smacked my shin into a table earlier, lost a bit of skin,” Jaskier says. “I’m fine.”

Geralt nods begrudgingly and begins to unclasp his armor.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t smell like blood for nearly a month after that conversation, and the next time he does he once again cites his own clumsiness. Geralt presses a jar of salve into Jaskier’s hands. He may not be able to protect Jaskier from his own clumsiness, but he can at least make sure he doesn’t get any unfortunate infections.

* * *

The entire way up the mountain, Jaskier smells of ash soap and the wood from his lute. Geralt hears the man’s heart break as he wields the hammer himself. When Jaskier leaves, Geralt can smell the metallic pain and saltwater sorrow.

* * *

He catches up with his bard two moons later and Jaskier stinks of rust, old blood and fresh copper overriding everything else he smells like.

“Have you been _fighting_?” he asks, the only explanation he can think of. Jaskier nods hesitantly, frowning, the bitter tang of guilt rising up behind the iron blood and bruising. “Shirt off, I’ve got extra salve in my pack,” he says stepping forward, and Jaskier steps back shaking his head.

“It’s fine,” he says, nearly whispering, and Geralt stops in place. His heavy heart grows heavier as he understands how much he’s hurt Jaskier.

“Please let me help clean you up,” he says, spreading his hands to show his palms, reassure that he’s not a threat.

“No,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat. At the very least, he accepts Geralt’s jar of salve as he goes to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and trapping the steam in. Geralt waits in the room and goes through his pack, making sure his provisions are all in order.

They make their apologies that night. ~~Geralt makes his apology, groveling like a dog, and Jaskier magnanimously lies through his teeth that he’s already been forgiven~~. Jaskier smells like new blood for a solid week, always blaming it on reopening an old wound. Geralt stops believing him, but once the fresh blood fades to the faint scent of healing scabs, he can’t bring himself to bring it up.

* * *

Geralt earns his forgiveness over the course of the next moon cycle, and finally Jaskier’s jaw loosens and his smiles reach his eyes again, though there is still the ever-present hint of seawater and rust in the background.

* * *

They sleep together in an inn. They’ve done so many times, but only ever in want of coin or warmth. They’re finally on the same page, and they sleep together, pressed tightly into each other’s bodies. The room had been near pitch black—no moonlight, no candles, just tactile input and auditory cues to go by. Geralt runs his fingertips over the skin of Jaskier’s back, and Jaskier just keeps a hand on Geralt’s stomach, mercifully not tracing old scars that never regained any feeling. After a while, the bard gives an exaggerated shiver and pulls his chemise back on, squirming to pull the hemline down to his knees. Geralt contents himself with drawing patterns on the back of Jaskier’s neck, and they fall asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing.

* * *

Jaskier’s chemise rides up slightly, revealing in the light of day smooth porcelain skin and three parallel red lines on the inner thigh, close to the knee.

Geralt frowns, wondering what had managed to scratch Jaskier without him noticing. He wakes the man with gentle touches. Jaskier turns his back to Geralt to get dressed, but still presses a kiss to the witcher’s lips before they leave to start another day of travel.

* * *

Jaskier gets injured on a hunt. He was too close, always too close to ever be entirely safe. The werewolf manages to get behind Geralt and slashes at Jaskier’s stomach. The bard retreats and falls with a yelp, and Geralt nearly tears the creature apart.

He mumbles sweet nothings and reassurances as he peels Jaskier’s chemise away from the wound that only smells of blood and fear, thank the gods. He can’t do much for ruptured organs, not this far away from any large towns.

Geralt focuses on the wound, quickly flushing it out with water and pressing a clean linen against it as Jaskier hisses, quiet through the pain. He sees the marks and raised lines, but he does not have time and he carries Jaskier back to their camp, settling him on a bedroll before rummaging in the saddlebags for the suture kit.

As he works, he lets himself take in the mess of scars. Most of them thin and shallow, but a few raised and stretched and painfully deep, a plethora of colors focused on his shoulders, ribs, and the hipbones made visible from loosened breeches. He stitches Jaskier back together again swiftly and steadily, taking in the scars he’s seen on the bodies of those turned to wraiths, the arms of people left spouseless and childless and aching.

Jaskier stares up at the sky, jaw clenched, not even a whimper or a whine rising in his throat as silk thread tugs his skin back together. Geralt wraps his stomach in bandages after a thin layer of salve and threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “It’ll scar,” he says softly, and Jaskier shrugs. Geralt now understands why he seemed to not care about the scar left by an endrega years ago.

“Not the first scar I’ve received, nor will it be the last,” Jaskier says, voice monotone, still not looking at Geralt. The witcher presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, cheek, then lips, but Jaskier turns his face away after a moment. “Don’t look at me like I’m some beautiful tragedy,” he warns, exhaustion creeping into his tone.

“I’m not,” Geralt says, and Jaskier finally meets his eyes. Pain and concern, yes, but there’s nothing pitying or sickly romanticizing in his gaze. Jaskier lets out a breath and accepts the kisses offered.

Geralt buries his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in skin and sweat and the tang of nervousness layered over residual pain from the claw wound.

“Please don’t make me _talk_ ,” Jaskier spits out, voice thick, and Geralt smells saltwater. He pulls a blanket over them both and curls himself around Jaskier, careful not to nudge his stomach or any of the fresher scabs.

“I won’t make you talk,” Geralt says slowly, picking his words with care. “And I won’t ask you to stop right now, I know how these things work. Just… come to me? You don’t have to hide it, and I’d prefer knowing that you’re injured and that the wound is clean rather than risking you getting an infection.”

Jaskier chews on his tongue for a moment, staring at the sky. “You’re possibly the first person who’s found out and not asked me to stop.”

“I’ve smelt blood on you for two decades, I know better than to think you can stop within a night.” Jaskier presses his lips together, and Geralt keeps talking. “I want you to try to do it less, but telling you to stop will just make you feel guilty and hide again, and I don’t want you to hide.”

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath and presses his face into Geralt’s hair, and Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t smell like fresh blood the entire time his torso is healing. The next time he does, it’s because he’s dug his fingernails into his forearm while glaring death into their campfire, and Geralt just gently takes Jaskier’s hands and holds them in his own until Jaskier’s heartbeat calms back down, whispering soft praises that Jaskier scoffs and whines at.

* * *

Two weeks later, Geralt wakes to the smell of copper and the sound of a choked off hiss of pain as Jaskier pours water with a shaking hand over a cut running down his bicep, sluggishly pumping out blood. Geralt stands and takes over the first aid, and Jaskier averts his eyes and whispers an apology.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Geralt reminds, wrapping Jaskier’s arm in herb-soaked linen. “You’re doing it less frequently, that’s all I asked for.”

Jaskier nods absently.

* * *

Jaskier tries to substitute bruises for blood, but it’s never quite enough and he always ends up drawing blood anyway. He sits on Geralt’s lap as the witcher presses his lips gently to the marks of fingers and fists.

* * *

Jaskier splits a callous while playing for tips in a tavern and as the strings of his lute get slick, he realizes that this is the first time in weeks that his blood has spilt. He wraps his finger in his handkerchief, collects his coin, and sidles up next to his witcher to eat his well-earned supper. He reaches for bread and lets Geralt fuss over his hand.

* * *

Jaskier most certainly does not cry a week later as he smears salve over thin parallel lines, alone in their shared room at an unnamed inn as Geralt slogs through the swamp hunting something or other. Jaskier is alone.

Geralt comes back smelling faintly of the algae and mud stuck to his armor, but mercifully much cleaner overall than he usually is. He stays as quiet as he can, seeing Jaskier holding a pillow to his chest on the bed, eyelids red and slightly puffy. Geralt gently shifts Jaskier’s chemise to check where he can smell the salve on the man’s thigh. He lets out a soft breath as he sees lines shallower than they’ve been in months. He gets out of his jerkin as silently as he can and slides into the bed behind Jaskier. He presses a kiss to the back of his neck and gently pulls the bard close.

* * *

They hear that Nilfgaard is marching on Cintra and immediately start heading south. It’s solidly night when Cintra comes into view a week later, and the city is orange with flame. Geralt draws Roach to a walk and Jaskier, sitting behind him, curses up a storm.

A piercing scream rings out and they notice a rider falling off his horse a few hundred meters away. Another scream and the earth itself begins to split, and Jaskier recognizes the shock of white blonde now running toward the nearby forest.

He hollers her name, making Geralt wince, but she pauses and looks, then starts sprinting towards them. Geralt urges Roach to meet her halfway, and he easily scoops the small girl into his lap and steers Roach back to the road away from Cintra.

They ride until Roach protests the lack of visibility, and Geralt deems them far enough away to camp until morning. He holds a shaking Cirilla in his arms and Jaskier rolls up his sleeves a bit in order to start a fire.

“How did you recognize her,” Geralt asks, and Jaskier looks up from the flint.

“Made a habit of visiting every couple of years. Keeping an eye, as it were,” he says.

“He played at some of my birthday parties,” Cirilla says, and Jaskier smiles at her before finally getting the kindling lit.

* * *

They get Ciri to Yennefer so she can at least start to learn how to control the Elder Blood in her veins, and Jaskier quietly realizes that he doesn’t have any healing scabs on his body, hasn’t drawn his own blood in at least a few moons. He quietly realizes that he really doesn’t want to, even if his bones itch for the sting.

He lays atop Geralt in their room in the manor Yennefer had appropriated in Toussaint, right under Nilfgaard’s nose. His jaw feels like it’s been wired shut. Geralt runs warm fingers over his back, humming low and quiet in the way that vibrates straight into Jaskier’s chest. After a long while, Jaskier tries to harmonize, tenor against baritone.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, face pressed into Geralt’s chest, and Geralt hum thoughtfully.

“It’s been all you, songbird,” he says. “You’re the one who protected your skin. And even if you bleed tomorrow, even if you lose a few more battles, you’ve already won the war.”

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t bleed tomorrow. He composes new songs and carries Ciri around the manor on his shoulders. He trades harmless insults with Yennefer, and he bakes bread, and he holds Geralt close, though neither of them trace the other’s scars. They both know too well how jarring it feels to have fingers lingering on numb raised skin.

And Jaskier doesn’t bleed tomorrow.


End file.
